The Mobster and The Mirror

A light knocking rapped upon my office door.

        You in there, boss?” asked a nasally voice.

       “When am I not?” I replied.

       A scrawny man in a cheap suit and thin tie opened the door to step through. Without looking up from the paperwork on my desk, I could already tell by the annoying voice it was Little Lips Louie.

       “Sorry to disturb you, boss, but we brought you back a little pressie from that old bird’s place. Figured it might be something you could spoil ya wife with ...or ya mistress,” he said, snapping his fingers with a smug grin. A couple of boys in pinstripes then wheeled in something twice Louie’s size veiled in a dusty old cloth.

       I looked up at Louie with a slight scowl and asked, “What do you mean you brought me back a little pressie? That ‘old bird’ is the stepmother to my mistress. Did you steal something from the sick old lady I asked you to take care of?”

       His eyes widened as the apple in his neck lifted and dropped with a gulp. “Well ...when you said ‘take care of her’...” he continued with a slight crack to his voice, “...I think there might have been some miscommunication on my part.”

      “Oh, for god’s sake, Louie,” I sighed, burying my face in the palms of my hands. “Go on, get outta here. I don’t wanna see ya face for a while.”

       “...and what about the pressie?” he asked.

       “Leave it. I guess it’s going to my wife,” I growled.

       “Okie dokie!” he gulped again, before rushing out and slamming the door.

       After rolling my eyes to the back of my head, I got up from my desk and unveiled this ‘pressie’. Turned out to be a standing mirror, somewhat ornate with unique markings etched into its oval frame. Didn’t look like nothing too special, but when I turned to get back to work, I could have sworn I saw something in the reflection out of the corner of my eye. I dismissed it as a trick of the light.

       “Eh, the missus will like it,” I thought.

                                                                                                                                                                                                     ***

Lucky for Louie, it turns out she loved it. So much, in fact, that she put it up in our bedroom that night. I guess he gets to wear his skin for another day.

       Staring at her own reflection, as if enamoured by her own gaze, my Wife asked, “Where did you get such a lovely antique?”

       As tempting as it was, I figured it better not to wisecrack by stating our wedding date. “I er ...acquired it from work,” I said, with a little more hesitation than I’d have liked. “One of the boys brought it in. Less I know, the better.”

       “How ...sweet,” she scoffed and soughed. Sounded like she bought it and that was good enough for me.

                                                                                                                                                                                                     ***

She spent the rest of the evening staring at the mirror, trying to figure out the markings from what I could gather of her mutterings. Even as great of a linguist as she was, she couldn’t figure ‘em out.

       When it came time to snooze, I had to practically drag her by the arm to her pillow. It was the most interaction we’d had in bed for months. Seemed almost a formality at that point, but we said our good nights, turned away from each other and did our best to sleep in each other’s company.

       As I was closing my eyes and drifting off, the mirror was just in view at the foot of our bed. I could swear I saw something move out of the corner of my eye again. I figured it was nothing, so I closed my eyes and tried to ignore it for eight hours.

       Two of those hours passed by and I awoke to a strange whispering in my ears. “Damn it, woman,” I groaned, “get back to ya beauty sleep.”

       The whispering continued, but I couldn’t quite make out what she was saying. Reluctantly, I sat up so I could listen to whatever nonsense she was spouting. Funnily enough, she was snoring her head off. I looked around the room to see if some ballsy git had broken in to whisper sweet nothings to me, but there was nobody to be seen. There was just that damned mirror and its glowing lights.

       “Wait a second,” I thought, “I don’t remember the mirror having glowing lights.”

       Not wanting to wake my wife, I crept out of bed towards the mirror to see if I could at least turn it off. The foreign markings etched into the frame were glowing a ghostly blue, but despite all of my efforts, I couldn’t find a switch or even a cord to unplug. I looked for a battery hatch on the back, but there was none to be found.

       Coming back to the front, my lungs nearly leapt out of my throat when I saw my reflection. Throwing my hands to my mouth, I gasped and held back a fright to not wake the missus. Staring back at me was a twisted and malformed version of myself. A black ink looked to be seeping from my eyes. Beneath my hands was a menacing grin of sharpened teeth.

       Touching my eye, there didn’t seem to be any ink to wipe away, nor was there any sort of residue on my finger. I figured I’d reach out to try and wipe away the schmutz, thinking it was on the mirror. When I touched my fingertip to the silvery surface, however, I felt a cold sensation flow through me.

       I recoiled, gasping once more and decided then and there that the mirror was off to the scrapyard in the morning. As I turned to retire back to bed, I noticed my reflection remained staring back at me as if someone was standing in a window. I also couldn’t help but notice the void of white where the walls of my house should have been behind the mirror and outside of its reflected view.

       “I must have drunk one too many scotches,” I thought. Heading back to my pillow, the sight of my bedroom became askew, as if it were an optical illusion and I’d just stepped out of the focal point. “I’d never had nightmares like this before.”

       I slapped myself in the face, but I didn’t wake up. With the pain searing in my reddening cheek, I was beginning to think I wasn’t asleep after all.

      The incoherent whispering returned to my ears and it was coming from the mirror. I walked back up to it and the freakish, mutated version of myself looked to be laughing in silence as it stared at me.

       “What do you want?” I asked aloud.

       The figure remained silent, only cocking its head in response. It then looked at my wife before turning back to me with an even wider grin of daggered teeth.

       I didn’t know what it wanted with her, but she’s MY wife, not its play toy. I felt the need to yell, “Don’t you dare!” as I punched the mirror in frustration. The silver glass cracked and in turn, an identical fissure broke through the optical illusion I’d found myself in. It was as if the light from the other side was obscured by it.

       With eyes wide and the wrinkles atop my forehead thoroughly creased, I looked back up to the figure waggling its finger at me like I was a child throwing a tantrum. Finally, it whispered something to me in plain English, “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her.”